


Reflections of the Past

by maikurosaki, the_physicist



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maikurosaki/pseuds/maikurosaki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_physicist/pseuds/the_physicist
Summary: When Steve gets de-serumed as a result of a magic attack, the Soldier tries to protect him as best as he can. But in between taking care of Steve and fighting his own demons, the Soldier remembers snippets of what it meant to be Bucky Barnes and be in love with Steve Rogers. And maybe, just maybe, he can allow that love to bloom again.





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration for Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018 with the-steve-bucky-ship (Tumblr)/ the_physicist (AO3). Please go and admire the wonderful, incredible [art](http://the-steve-bucky-ship.tumblr.com/post/175483466638/this-is-my-art-for-cap-rbb-2018-maikurosaki) that I was lucky to get. Wow! <3  
> ***  
> This fic was beta read by the amazing and ever patient captncat – she saved this story and made it look ten times better. Thank you @mods from CapRBB for making this challenge such a pleasant experience.

Steve realizes that something is wrong as soon as he opens his eyes, wincing under the sudden onslaught of noise in one ear. He is torn between two worlds, falling and falling, a familiar helplessness. It feels like his head is half under water because his other ear is clogged, the sounds muffled, almost muted. There is something hot and bitter clenching tight in his chest, leaving him breathless. This is how their enemies must feel when Thor rests his hammer on their chests , pinning them down, powerless and unworthy. He squeezes his eyes shut tight in a futile attempt to regain a modicum of normalcy. He hasn't felt like this in a long time.

Steve swallows thickly like he does when Nat brings down the jet quickly for an emergency landing, losing altitude so rapidly that he feels his stomach swoop and his ears pop. It happened she'd caught him wiggling a finger in his ear and he'd shrugged sheepishly at the raised eyebrow. His body is enhanced, but he's still human. He swallows again to no avail. Hey, maybe that's why he likes to throw himself out from moving airplanes so much. And there's a joke in there somewhere, one that Bucky might make. Although, since his return, Bucky seems to have lost the pleasure he once found in making jokes.

 _Bucky_.

Steve opens his eyes abruptly and stares up at Bucky looming over him as he does his best to shield Steve from the vicious rain of debris falling around them. Even kneeling and with his human arm propped straight as a post next to Steve's head, Bucky manages to look as scary as ever. Face set tight, his metal arm makes an alarming mechanical whine under the heavy weight of the shield as he holds it over them like an umbrella. He's bleeding from a cut on the left side of the forehead, tiny splashes of red like dripping down onto the pavement next to Steve's head.

Steve swallows thickly again, this time for a completely different reason. He reaches for Bucky's cheek, fingers slightly trembling, his whole arm throbbing. He's not sure why he hurts so much, only that it's familiar in a way that tastes bitter on his tongue. His arm gives out and falls limply next to him. There's no strength left in his body as if someone upstairs had just snuffed a candle out taking with it what was left of Steve's energy.

Bucky watches all of this with the same impassive stare, unruffled by Steve's sudden failed familiarity.

(Winter blue eyes track every move Steve makes and catalogues each of his failures. At times, Bucky looks like a judge sent to ponder over Steve's sins and without fail, finds him lacking. Steve doesn't think there's anything he can do to tip the scale in his favor but there's no redemption for people that have failed their lovers the way he has.)

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, words almost entirely drowned out by the deafening noise that the constant debris makes falling against the shield. Even in his confusion, Steve is aware that debris shouldn't fall for so long.

"Better question, are you?" Bucky grunts back. Steve rolls his eyes but it just makes the whole landscape spin around him, leaving him breathless and queasy. Something nauseating churns deep within the pit of his stomach and his heart squeezes in his chest like a rabbit trying to burrow in for safety. He takes a deep breath to settle down and then swallows hard in a poor attempt to keep the bile down because Bucky sure as hell doesn't deserve to be thrown up on when he already looks like hell.

The rain of rubble falling on them doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon but Steve could barely hear it, his right ear still clogged, probably with blood from the impact. That would also explain why his head hurts so damn much. It's becoming more difficult to breathe as dust billows around them, thickening the air. It's smothering; pulling in a breath feels too much like he's trying to inhale molasses.

He notices now that his whole body is shaking with a weakness Steve hasn't felt in more than seventy years. He tries to lift his arm again but this time he can barely move it. Steve doesn't want to panic, he really doesn't, but God, he _hates_ magic. Throat tight, Steve can't ignore that his chest is burning. He opens his mouth a few times in lame attempts to answer Bucky, but his tongue is thick and his mouth is dry and there's only so much a super-soldier can endure.

"Can I get back to you on that?" he finally manages to respond, wheezing a little in a way that sounds bad even to his own ear. He begins a routine of short, controlled breaths that Bruce taught him a few months ago when Bucky had been hurt during a mission and Steve had lost his mind a little. Some additional victims on their enemies' side might have been registered, Steve couldn't have said though because he had been too focused on getting Bucky to safety after that, bile and blood mixing in his mouth like a dangerous cocktail of venomous thoughts.

(He might have lost his mind _a lot_ – Steve isn't afraid to admit that at times he'd rather see the world burn than lose Bucky again. Every time he catches a glimpse of Bucky's scarred shoulder, every time he gets hurt, Steve feels it pull at his soul. By the time he might reach the pearly white gates, there might be nothing left to judge.)

"Sure, pal," comes Bucky's swift reply and Steve is filled again with the familiar longing to just fling his arms around Bucky's wide shoulders and hold on. On and on and on. ' _Til the end of the line._

But these days, Bucky hates touches, especially the affectionate ones. Ruffling his hair is out of the question. Squeezing his wrist in comfort had resulted in several sprains – and one broken arm during a memorable night full of nightmares and ghosts – and any attempt at hugging has been met with limp arms and a stiff spine. It seems like any kind of touch breaks Bucky's heart over and over again, and Steve's efforts at disabusing him of such notion have been met with long yard stares and utter befuddlement. Steve hasn't tried to touch Bucky in ages.

“I hate magic,” Steve says out loud as he realizes that he still can't hear with his right ear.

“You and me both, pal.” Bucky grinds his teeth. The burden of the shield grinds into his metal arm, pinning them both in this awkward position. Bucky grunts again as something particularly heavy hits the shield, sending him closer to Steve. “I actually miss the talking squids from last month.”

The 'talking squids' had actually been aliens, lost on their mission of peace to Alpha Centauri. Their navigational system had been destroyed during a surprise attack of rogue enemy ships and they had requested the help of the mighty 'Earthen engineers', which had promptly sparked an international debate as to whether they should offer help or not. Thor had had to act as an intergalactic ambassador to calm some ruffled feathers. It had also helped that the squid-like aliens – they were blue, with big eyes, and six limbs; the resemblance was a bit uncanny – had a sophisticated universal translator that seemed to encompass a variety of languages, including most of the ones spoken on Earth.

It had not been pleasant but, in the end, a team of Wakandan, American, and Russian aerospace engineers had managed to work out the damage and restore their navigational system. In the meantime, the Avengers had acted out as tour guides and ambassadors for Earth and some of the aliens had taken a shine on Bucky and his metal arm, which they touched. A lot. With some of their uhm, tentacles? Appendages? God only knew what the correct term was. Bucky had grinned and born it, only losing his patience once or twice. They might have also offered him a trip to Alpha Centauri – and God, the look on Bucky's face had been priceless; it was good to know his love for science and space had survived – but unfortunately their life support system couldn't be adapted to Bucky's needs.

“How are you guys holding up?” Sam says, and Steve's lucky his earpiece happens to be in his good ear. He watches fascinated as Bucky's mouth twists into a frown. Steve tries to make his expression say _I'm mostly okay!_ but he's not sure how well he succeeds. His mouth is dry and he can barely pull enough air to say the words out loud, so he settles for staring up at Bucky, who nods in mute comprehension.

(They used to be able to read each other's looks, gestures, stares in a second – a secret language of their own that only they could decode. Sometimes Steve catches himself giving Bucky those same glances, somehow always hopeful he'll re-learn their language, but these days it feels like they communicate in hieroglyphs, their secret meaning long-forgotten, opaque and vacuous now.)

“Cap's been hit by one of the spells. No external damage,” Bucky reports dutifully, ignoring his own wounds. “He's conscious and talking but he can't move. We're pinned down by the debris. ETA on Strange?”

“He's here but it's taking a while to disarm the spells that the Harry-Potter-wannabe cast,” Sam answers, sounding a little breathless. “By the way, the dude is gone, but he left a mess. I'm pinned down by sentient vines, Hulk is captive in a mirror, and Nat is fighting an army of spiders.”

“It's just one giant spider,” Nat promptly intervenes over the comm, panting for breath, but her smoky voice still washes soothingly over Steve. “Stark has it worse: he's battling a small army of undead.”

“And winning, thank you very much.” Tony's brash voice filters across the comm too. “Every time I think I can't be more awesome, there I go and prove myself wrong.” Among all the annoyed noises that everyone makes across the comm, Stark simply grunts, before adding, “No sarcastic comment from our great leader? Are you sure he's fine, BuckyBot?”

“Tony, please,” Steve mutters at last, though it takes great effort to push out the words past his lips.

Steve's more than grateful for what Tony did for them, for his forgiveness and for funding the constant trips to Wakanda so that Bucky can have his arm checked and upgraded every time Shuri comes up with something new (though he's pretty sure Tony's in it for the glimpses he gets of Wakandan tech). He doesn't know what would have happened, had their friendship been irreparably damaged.

“I miss the talking squids,” Bucky says in an attempt to distract them and it works. He blinks blandly at Steve who shakes his head – he doesn't try to talk again, barely able to concentrate on his breathing. Bucky licks his lips, beads of sweat mixing with blood now.

“Me too.” Sam chuckles. “Or the giant crabs. Hey, remember the dolls with the creepy unblinking green eyes?” Sam pauses, his voice directed at someone else, and then he's back online. “Strange says that he's coming to you, Bucky. He thinks Steve was the specific target for this attack.”

“Why?” Bucky's bland stare turns into fire and brimstone.

(Steve would be lying if he said that it didn't warm his heart that deep down inside somewhere, Bucky still cares for him, even if it's just as a friend or a colleague.)

“Well, it's not like the wizard stuck around to enlighten us.”

“I swear once we catch that guy –”

“I know, I know,” and Steve chuckles feebly because he can almost picture Sam's _I had enough_ face. “His insides will become his outsides, you'll rip his spine out, blah blah blah.”

“Jesus, Wilson, I was gonna say that I'll stick his wand where the sun don't shine,” comes Bucky's swift reply, a little appalled. “Where do you come up with such bloody scenarios?”

“Don't try and tell me –”

“Buck,” Steve says but it comes out as a whimper this time because suddenly the pain is so much worse. His entire body is convulsing, wracked with terrible shivers. The pain digs down to his very core; his muscles burn and his bones ache, fire scalding in his veins. He gasps Bucky's name like a prayer, with a faith that has never been broken because, through everything, Bucky is still his best friend. Bucky is yelling in frustration but Steve doesn't understand him, he can't, and he's going to lose himself again in that abyss of darkness and cold and he can't he can't he can't.

There's a warm hand brushing the side of his face, something whispered to him – he can't make out the words but the tone is comforting. There's a thumb caressing his cheekbone and even though his vision is fading, Steve knows that it's Bucky. The touch washes over him in an overwhelming soothing wave. Steve struggles to pull in each breath but his lungs constrict in pain.

Steve closes his eyes and lets himself fall down, down, down.

And then there is only darkness.

~*~

Steve becomes aware of a soft pillow underneath his cheek and turns his face deeper into it. The room spins dangerously around him but everything is muted and peaceful for once so he doesn't want to open his eyes. His eyelids are heavy and sore, as if he'd been through a sandstorm and made to bear witness to it instead of looking for a hideout – he wants to rub them but that would take an effort he doesn't feel capable of yet.

He burrows deeper under the blanket. His back is killing him, and he thinks that he might need to ask Bucky to go and buy him some more cigarettes because he can barely breathe and if he doesn't do something about it soon he's going to have another asthma attack – and he'll catch Bucky staring at him again, the corners of his lips turned down, a frown so deep Steve could fit a coin in it. The worry is starting to look permanently etched on his face.

(Bucky always takes care of him. He always has a smile on his face. Even when Steve couldn't go to work _again_ because he was sick. Even when Bucky is exhausted from his own work on the docks, hands blistered and back on fire. Even when the last of his money goes towards buying Steve pencils and paper for the small illustrations that Mr. Huisman down the block sells for him.

There's nothing much left of Bucky these days. He gives so much of himself to his family and to Steve that Steve is afraid that one of these days, someone will come from the docks and say that Bucky dropped dead. It's been known to happen – too many worries and too much work.)

A presence lingers in the room and Steve knows who it is, of course. He scrunches his nose for a moment and attempts to gather his wits because he really doesn't want to worry Bucky more than he already does.

He opens his eyes and the world comes crashing down, an entire universe evaporating in the blink of an eye.

“You're all right.” Bucky's gravelly voice is soothing, but his eyes tell a different story. “I'm here, you're okay.” The words are so familiar, so painful to hear that Steve's eyes are full to the brim in a second. He's missed this so much. The reassurance that he's not alone, that there's someone who knows him the way he used to be known.

There are dark circles under Bucky's eyes and worry etched in every feature, hair in disarray and mouth crumpled in unhappiness – Steve can almost taste the intimacy of it. It's engraved on his ribs, it's painted in his eyes, it fills his mouth with surrender.

“What happened?” Steve asks, licking his lips. “It feels like my head weighs a ton.”

Bucky grabs a glass of water without answering his question and gently cradles Steve's head so he can take a few sips of water. Throat less dry and a little more awake, Steve rests his head on the pillow again and looks around. They are in the living room of their apartment in the Stark Tower; the whole room is bathed in shadow, just a few lamps casting their comforting glow around the room. They make the colors less vibrant, less clear, and Steve scrunches his eyes again in an attempt to clear his vision but when he opens them again, the life around him is just as dull as before.

The vibrancy seems to have been snuffed out of the room, the sudden silence of it making Steve glance back at Bucky who watches him carefully. Steve makes a valiant attempt at swallowing past the sudden bile in his throat.

“How's everyone?” he whispers.

“Fine.”

“What happened?” he croaks, his clenched throat painful, as if he had a shot of gravel just before going to sleep. “Why am I–” _like this, prisoner again into a feeble and failing body that never taught me anything else but surrender,_ “– like this?”

“It's only temporary,” Bucky answers, at last, his icy eyes watching him carefully. “Strange said that it will pass in a day or two. Attempting to remove the effect of the spell might actually be more damaging.”

“You mean I'm back to my old self?” Steve sucks a deep breath but it's not enough to calm his fluttering heart.

“Yeah, back to the good old days.” Bucky tries to smile but there's an old worry shining in those winter blue eyes, its burden and vexation familiar in their bitterness. Steve hates it immediately.

“Half-deaf, color blind, heart murmur,” Steve catalogues each of his flaws, anger racketing up a notch, “asthma, scoliosis.” It's fucking unfair – although everything is so familiar to him, it still fills him up with the same despondency that dominated most of his life before getting the serum.

Bucky doesn't say anything. Steve raises his hands and looks at his spindly fingers, his bony wrists. Raising his head a little, he watches how his entire body seems almost dwarfed by the wide space of the couch, like a sort of scrappy sacrifice on a comfortable altar. He rests his head back on the pillow and stares up at the ceiling.

He doesn't panic. People forget at times that Steve spent most of his life in this feeble body rather than in the post-serum one – he doesn't count the seventy years entombed in ice. His body's failings are more familiar than the powerful attributes of the serum and he knows that in the current circumstances, he's actually lucky to have modern technology on his side. An ECG and an ultrasound can show the state of his heart. He can borrow a hearing aid from Clint. He can order some glasses to read and draw. He can even use an inhaler for his asthma. There's much that can improve his life, even if it's just for a day or two.

But it still makes his stomach sink and a cold sweat break out on his skin. How is he going to protect Bucky if he can't even breathe properly? How can he help his friends when there's nothing in him but sheer will and stubbornness?

“Strange cast a tracking spell,” Bucky says in that flat tone again. “Apparently, our enemy left enough residual energy to power an entire block. Wilson is checking the lay lines from above that Strange trained him to see. The Scarlet Witch is already planning our next attempt at catching the guy.”

“And you brought me here?”

“Familiar locations ease the impact of trauma,” Bucky parrots, then looks down and away. “They wanted to keep you in the hospital, but I remembered –” He stops and bites his lip unsure. “I remembered how much you hated doctors.”

“You did well, Buck.” Steve hesitantly rests his hand on Bucky's flesh forearm, wary of the flinch, but it never comes. On the contrary, it seems like Bucky was just waiting for his permission to relax; his whole body slumps like the invisible strings holding him up were suddenly cut, freeing him from an invisible burden. Slowly, Bucky bows his head and presses his forehead against Steve's hand and Steve can't breathe, heart pounding loud and threatening to explode into his own gaunt chest.

Steve lets out a shuddery sigh and closes his eyes. This is the most they've touched in such a long time and it ignites a hunger in his chest that is overwhelming and all-encompassing. The strength of his desire scares him; it could devour Bucky whole. He forces himself to breathe, to relax. After a long moment, the feeling settles and he is lulled into a fitful doze again, pulled down by the fatigue of his new-old body.


	2. Bucky

Sometimes, when the Soldier walked into a room, he could still smell burnt cabbage and dry baked potatoes, even though no one was cooking, especially not in the upper floors of a swanky building like the Stark Tower – at times, the food appears as if through magic in the tower and the Soldier resents that somehow even more than the new arm that Shuri had created for him. In those moments though, he would look around, almost tempted to chase that untraceable scent.

He could almost picture a narrow set of stairs. He could almost hear babies crying, people coughing or shouting at each other because being poor wasn't easy. Being Irish and dirt poor was even worse. The Soldier's bones hurt just remembering the narrow cot where they used to warm each other's bodies and pray and pray and _pray_ that death wouldn't catch up with Stevie during that winter either.

The Soldier would find himself caught in the impossibility of chasing down those memories. He could almost feel scrawny arms wrapping gently and infinitely tenderly around him like he was fragile. He could almost feel a feverish head resting on his chest and Bucky Barnes – the Bucky Barnes that died at Azzano and never came back – would pray and pray to a god in which he still believed back then. He ain't much of a Catholic these days.

He ain't much of anything.

Bucky Barnes ain't much of Bucky Barnes these days, no matter how much Steve Rogers insists he is, the stubborn asshole. He ain't much of the Winter Soldier either. He's not a whole person, just this weird patchwork of memories, belonging nowhere – mind clear of any traps, new swanky arm in place but drowning in an endless ocean of scars and nightmares and guilt. He is a ghost, haunting Stark Tower, patrolling the same corridors over and over again, checking every room he could and unable to stop.

Some nights he goes and watches Stark working over new projects – Stark throws up words constantly; they ebb and flow like an endless ocean and the Soldier can let them wash over him without needing to resurface. During those nights, when that manic glint in Stark's eyes glimmers incessantly, the Soldier would ask questions about technology and the science behind whatever project Stark happened to be working on. Then Stark would answer back and lecture and the words would ebb and flow again and Bucky would sit content and listen, his own dark thoughts abating for a fleeting moment.

Other nights, the Soldier sneaks in Captain America's bedroom and watches him sleep. Sometimes, he takes a pillow and a blanket with him, and falls asleep on the floor next to the Captain, lulled into a false sense of security by the muffled breath and soft noises that the Captain makes. During those nights, he'd remember a harder bed and skinny arms and think that everything was just in his imagination.

He'd dream of kisses hard like punches, punishing in their genuine affection – he'd remember a skinny body, a fragile composition of frail bones and sinews, kept together by sheer will – he'd remember his hands moving gently over it, mapping every tiny detail and each time thinking about how privileged he was just to have a taste of this. And Stevie would gather all his strength and rally his will as if in for a fight each time, a fight to the death. The first time they kissed Bucky felt sick to his stomach with how much he loved Steve, with how unbearable his loss would be. He remembered that but not much else.

And so the Soldier ain't much of Bucky Barnes these days, but Captain America ain't much of Steve Rogers either. And it's wrong and it's wrong and it's wrong. But the Soldier doesn't know how to put that into words – words have been instruments of torture as much as the physical pain and mutilation had been and the Soldier doesn't trust words anymore. Not even when they ebb and flow. Not even when they come from the Captain. Not even when they come from _Steve_.

But then magic happens. Literally.

~*~

The Soldier watches his best friend fall asleep again. On their couch, he looks even tinier than he used to be.

It was Banner that listened to Bucky and brought Steve back to their apartment, ensuring that he was comfortable on their large couch. It was Banner that smiled silently at him, the corners tugged down just so by an unspeakable sadness. Both of them watched for a moment the frail body laid to rest on the couch and they both shuddered upon listening to Steve's labored breath. Then Banner clapped the Soldier's shoulder amicably – one of the few allowed to touch, because Banner knows what it means not to be the master of his own self – and left them alone.

Thus, it was the Soldier that took upon himself the task of changing Steve into comfortable clothes because no one else was there to do it because Steve was his to protect, even more so now that he was de-serumed. He took the patient gown off, careful not to jostle Steve and wake him, ignoring his sudden nudity. The Soldier chose a blue t-shirt and gently pushed it over Steve's head, hating the way his metal arm looked so menacing touching that pale skin so reverently, so aware of himself.

Then he took a pair of comfortable sweats, gently pushing them up past the line of fine hair, on narrow hips, that one time – a long time ago, it'd been such a long time ago – he had mapped with his tongue and lips forever until Steve had been spent and happy and content and had gently run his fingers through Bucky's hair. He rolled them up a few times until they properly suited Steve and pushed the memory to the back of his mind. It was pointless thinking about it.

(This memory is so fresh in his mind, so new, that for a moment he wonders if Hydra decided to plant random fake memories for him to painfully unearth when most inconvenient. He wouldn't put it past them, though it's been some time since he'd been under their control.)

Then the Soldier rested his hand on the bony ankle, feeling the bones just as brittle as always under his flesh hand, and he almost broke down right then and there. He trembled terribly as he tucked Steve in and sat down on the floor next to him. Counting his breaths and wondering – always with the wondering – if Steve was all right.

The Soldier had never shared it with anyone, but when he was still Bucky Barnes and he still had his Howling Commandos, he had profoundly hated Steve when he had woken up on that table in Azzano and had seen his new form. It hadn't been because of jealousy – although that was there, of course it was there, he was only human, never perfect, never squeaky clean like Captain America – and it hadn't been because of selfishness, – although he had been selfish and he had hated every minute of it. It was that even when he had nothing, he had Steve; and it had dawned on him that Steve would never be his again, a feeling that had intensified worse when they'd sat at that bar and he'd been invisible and had taken it out on Steve.

It had been because he was angry; there he was fighting and seeing the worst of humankind and thought that maybe this world deserved to burn if humans were capable of such atrocities – but at least Steve was safe and sound back home. Whatever meager wages Bucky had, they were going to him to help him survive another winter.

Bucky had never prayed for anyone's survival as much as he prayed for Steve's. He saw Steve's face in every damn orphan across Europe and he fought for them because there was no one left to fight for them in the first place. And he had fought for all those people that were deemed unworthy of any sacrifice because they were all Steve and only Steve, not even his sisters or his ma or his pa.

And then, there was Steve – in his new body, like a reincarnated god, a literal warlord – and Bucky hated him, hated him so much in that particular moment that he wanted to see the world burn around them and they with it.

What kind of monster had the Soldier always been? At times, it seems to him that he had always been a monster, a sleeping one, like a vengeful dragon, dormant in the pits of a mountain until Hydra had woken him up. Because he couldn't understand, for the life of him, why his blood had sung when Dr. Strange had pointed out that the spell might last a couple of days before Steve would return to his post-serum form and he'd be back to Captain America. What kind of monster rejoices in seeing his friend depleted of his life force?

(Perhaps because Captain America was always itching for a fight – righteous though he might be – and it was so difficult to always protect him, always surrender to his instinct of just looming over him like a tenebrous bodyguard. Or maybe that was just an excuse.)

“You're not sleeping,” Steve said softly. The Soldier can barely breathe with how beautiful that voice sounds, just as deep, just as commanding, even 'trapped' into that small and frail body.

“I ain't much for sleeping these days,” the Soldier answers and leans his forehead against the couch. Spindly and elegant fingers run through his hair immediately and the Soldier closes his eyes in sweet surrender. It confuses him to see himself so unsettled by Steve's old form like he swallowed up a thunderstorm and he's about to break.

“Are you worried about me?”

Words don't mean much these days but it doesn't mean they don't serve a purpose.

“No, Strange says you'll recover quickly and I trust him more than Stark when it comes to magic.”

“Don't call it magic, you know how Tony gets.”

“I ain't much for definitions these days either,” the Soldier says. His tone is maybe harsher than he means it to be, but Steve doesn't seem to mind since he doesn't stop his ministrations. He listens quietly to Steve's labored breaths then after a while, he mutters, “I think Stark is more pissed off that he doesn't have an instant cure for you through science. Maybe get one up on Strange.”

“Was there any yelling involved this time?”

“No. Just more eye-rolling than is befitting for an adult.”

“Did he show Strange some diagrams? Maybe a graph or two?”

“There might have been some of that, but luckily the Spider was there and she stopped things from goin' further.” The Soldier opens his eyes and looks up at Steve. “Wilson said to give him a call in the morning and Clint wanted to bring Lucky but I remembered you were allergic to dogs.”

“It amuses me to no end that you and Clint are best friends,” Steve said at last and pushed the rebel strands away from the Soldier's face. Summer blue eyes watched him attentively, trying to gauge something but for the life of him, the Soldier can't guess what.

“He has Lucky,” the Soldier replies, shrugging a little, as if owning a dog is enough to make other people worthy of his trust. Hydra took that away from him too, the possibility of reliance on other people, leaving in its place the never-ending doubt that someday they were going to use him like Hydra did.

They lock eyes and the Soldier falls and falls into an abyss of crushing darkness and endless blue.

“You did good,” Steve murmurs. Something hot uncoils down inside of the Soldier's stomach. “You remembered well – I am allergic to dogs.”

“Can I touch you?” he asks softly, more Bucky Barnes than the Soldier in that moment.

“Of course, Buck.” Steve bites his lip hard. His lips are just as full and tempting as they always were. The Soldier shakes his head and rising up on his knees, he lays his head softly on Steve's chest. Gently, oh so gently, until his ear could finally be blessed with heartbeats. Ta-thump. Ta-thump. Each strained breath a struggle and yet, Bucky rejoices. It means another night. It means –

(Fiery blue eyes stared up at him, fingers clenched tight on his shirt, and Bucky prayed silently that Steve wouldn't pull too hard because it was his only good shirt and tearing it would mean a very embarrassing and expensive trip to a tailor. Or his ma. He wasn't sure which was worse. He was also a little annoyed at Steve for not explaining the reason for his anger. Their breaths resounded harshly in the silent room.

Then, suddenly, Steve was kissing him like a punch in the gut, like a knife cutting deep. The shock of it all jolted his entire body and Bucky let out a moan, hands coming to rest on narrow hips, and Steve deepened the kiss in response. Bucky had been starving for so long; he'd been craving and dreaming of this for years. And God, of course it was Steve, who took the plunge first. Of course it was Steve, always the braver of the two of them.)

The Soldier raises his head and watches Steve again, whose eyes are drooping with exhaustion.

“Rest,” the Soldier whispers, afraid to break the spell of a long forgotten dream. “I'll be here when you wake up.” Steve smiles, reassured and content, and closes his eyes again.

The Soldier spends the rest of the night in vigil.

~*~

He's not difficult to find, once the Soldier puts his mind to it. He knows that Steve ain't too happy with the decision that was made earlier today – Strange managed to locate the wizard and Scarlet Witch came up with a brilliant plan, one that didn't include Steve in any way. In fact, he was expressly prohibited to even think about activating the comm, and checking on the status of the mission. And the Soldier was charged with ensuring that Steve would comply with his order to basically stand down.

Although unhappy himself – maybe Wilson hadn't been so far-fetched in his assumption that the Soldier would like nothing more than to inflict pain on the bastard that dared to hurt Steve – he was aware that if inappropriately guarded, Steve would find a way to join them and the Soldier clearly hated that option.

So it is babysitting duty, which, at the moment, included staring down at a pouting super-soldier, who, in spite of being de-serumed, still looked mildly threatening in his anger. The Soldier crosses his arms and looks at Steve, legs set slightly apart. They had managed to find him a darn blue Captain America t-shirt. Stark had snickered like a two-year-old – and somehow Steve managed to find some khakis that mostly fit him, his hair carefully combed and freshly shaven.

“You don't need to supervise me, Buck,” Steve growls, and the Soldier smiles amusedly. Right, even with his memory seventy percent gone, he knows that one's a damn lie. “I'm not a goddamn child,” Steve adds, obviously frustrated with his benching.

“Well, no one would think that way, if you'd stop acting like one,” the Soldier replies as he leans against the opposite wall and lets the light breeze gently caress his hair. He inhales sharply. The thunderstorm inside of him has transformed into a full hurricane. Destructive and merciless as it brings the Soldier on the brink of a discovery. It seems right there – he can almost taste it, he can almost name it. And as he glances at Steve, he thinks he can almost have it.

“I just don't understand why I'm not even allowed to get an update on the mission.” Steve runs his fingers through his hair and sighs dejectedly. His perfectly combed fringe flops onto his forehead and the Soldier almost smiles.

“The Spider promised that she'll update us if any of them gets hurt and Wilson will inform us if they'll need you.” The Soldier bites the inside of his cheek. He hates talking so much. It still feels wrong somehow. “You ain't much of help in your current condition and everyone would worry about you instead of concentrating on the mission. Is that what you want?”

Steve glances at Bucky, looking stricken. It makes Bucky sick to his stomach and he looks down at his broad hands, one flesh and one metal, wondering yet again what is so wrongly wired in his brain. Shame burns hot and bitter through his veins when he hears Steve say softly, “Of course. Buck. I know, but still...”

(There's none of the last night's gentleness. They woke up strangers again, the morning bringing hastily an end to their odd closeness. As they drank coffee, the Soldier wanted to confess – a keen sense of touching itching in the center of his palms, mouth suddenly dry and full of cotton – confess what though, he didn't know. The hot warmth spreading down in his belly like the sweetest fire? The trembling on his arms each time he brushed against Steve? The hunger of his lips? He didn't know what to say so he remained silent, unbearably aware that his silence was smothering something vital.)

“Sorry, pal, I didn't mean it like that,” the Soldier tosses back. Sighing, he pushes himself off the wall and takes a few steps towards Steve, unable to resist the pull of gravity between them. Steve had always been his sun, there was no denying it.

He rests his metal arm against the wall and angles his entire body towards Steve's, looming slightly over him, thinking that if someone was to attack them now, he'd be able to cover Steve and protect him with his entire body. He pushes a strand behind his ear then gently lets his flesh hand curl over a bony shoulder. Steve's body is a long and lean line against the warm wall, but the Soldier is easily several inches taller than him.

(How can Steve affect him so much in this form? They've been living together for the past two years and he didn't think even for a moment to bring those shadowy memories back to life – that passion doesn't seem to have a place anymore in their lives, having succumbed to the depths of their souls. But the Soldier's entire body now thrums with craving, muscles coiled tight, eager to please.)

“How about we just watch some old movies and eat junk food?” he suggests, voice half-strangled. “I'm sure everything will be over before you know it and you'll be back to your old self.”

“This is my old self.” Steve looks up at him then and a faint smile colors his lips.

“Yeah, it is.” The Soldier nods. They stare at each other again and the Soldier swallows thickly, his flesh hand suddenly clammy. He takes his hand away, but Steve grabs it quickly. For a moment, the sun glints on the purple spare hearing-aid that Clint lent him this morning. The Soldier drowns in a pool of summer blue. Steve looks searchingly at him, reading between the worry lines and the frown and the granite cold stare that he gets back for his effort.

He pushes his fingers through Bucky's and intertwines them. They're both shocked by the natural progression of their intimacy. For the life of him, the Soldier can't remember why he denied this closeness for so long. From his own wide eyes, Steve seems shocked as well.

(He's on the edge of a precipice, about to fall again. Just like on that helicarrier, watching Captain America falling to his doom. The Soldier knew back then that there was nothing he could do, nothing at all, yet the enormity of letting the Captain die suffocated him and that abject and preposterous possibility made him act more than anything else.)

The walk back to their apartment feels like an exquisite torture. The Soldier catalogues hungrily each of Steve's idiosyncrasies, because they bring back memories long-forgotten or lost to Hydra, more than ever before. The sudden familiarity of Steve Rogers pushes under his skin, a low hum of undiluted want spreading throughout his whole body.

(He used to be Bucky Barnes, a worker on the docks, a good son and a good brother, a best friend, and a protector, and secretly in love with his best friend. Secretly, selfishly, intimately. He was never going to confess his love – he had the certainty that he was going to be rejected and looked down upon, no matter how good Steve was as a person. Also, because he was afraid that, in the off chance event that Steve might feel the same, he would put Steve in a far greater danger than he ever was.

But he still trembled when Steve touched his cheek in painful tenderness. He still swallowed hard when Steve would brush against him at night, his whole body tensed like a coil, loving and dreading those moments in equal measure.)

As soon as they're back in their apartment, the Soldier takes his jacket off and throws it on the couch before following Steve in the kitchen. Sunlight spills around the entire room, unlike anything the Soldier had ever seen back in the day when their kitchen had just a small window facing the wall of the opposite building, no sunlight ever visiting them. Steve looks up and smiles when he notices the Soldier watching him.

The feeling of falling is so sudden and precipitous that the Soldier needs to take a loud deep breath in through the nose in a futile attempt to calm himself. Frozen in place, he is painfully aware of his ragged breaths as he wipes at his face with his flesh hand. He looks up at Steve who watches him, concerned, one hand hovering over his own heart.

“Steve,” the Soldier mutters, because he can't, because he _won't_ deny himself this time. _Not this time_. His thoughts are jumbled. “Steve.” The name sounds like a sob in the dark of a lonely night. Like a futile prayer gone unheard. And yet, spindly fingers cup his cheeks. And yet, blue eyes, liquid and warm, stare back with affection and warmth. A sense of identity washes over him, bright and warm, unrestrained and peaceful – he is more of Bucky Barnes in that particular moment than in any other.

He gently rests his hands over Steve's, one metal and one flesh, and breaths him in. He kisses the crown of Steve's head and rests his cheek there for a moment. He is home at last. He can feel it in the very atoms of his being.

It feels like an eternity passes as they look at each other, drinking each other in. And then Steve just slightly tilts his head like he always used to do where Bucky was concerned and smiles bright and happy.

“There you are,” Steve says shakily. And the Soldier may be wired wrong, and he might be unworthy of such a man, but he suddenly closes the distance between them and kisses Steve Rogers and he is whole again.

Broad palms curl around narrow, bony hips and gently pull Steve's body close to his. He comes easily, warmly, as if there's no place he'd rather be if the Soldier is to judge by the wonderful sounds that he makes. Steve kisses him with that knife edge to it again, cradling his face as if he's something fragile and brittle, but precious nonetheless. And the Soldier – _Bucky_ – finds himself kissing back like a man possessed, hot and fierce, chasing Steve's taste even when they break for air. He kisses Steve's jaw, he nips at his pulse point and then he's back to his lips, enjoying their plumpness, their sweet taste, their wilderness.

Steve moans wantonly and grabs Bucky by the shoulders, pushing his body against Bucky's. They both groan in pleasure as a sweet fire licks against his spine, something hot and rousing stirring awake in his belly. He moves as close as he can until he doesn't know where he ends and Steve begins. He lets his hands slink down Steve's body until he can reach behind his thighs and then slowly and gently pulls him up. Steve's legs immediately wrap around his waist as he gasps in pleasure.

Steve is so small, so easy to handle that for a moment Bucky is dizzy with the power of it. He has to be careful, so careful, but Steve gasps, “Buck, please,” so he lets go, lets himself kiss like a starving man and makes his way down to Steve's bedroom.

~*~

The bed is big and unfamiliar. Bucky Barnes stirs awake and tenses for a moment when he feels the weight of a strong arm against his waist, a broad hand still lingering across his chest, above his heart. His back is against a strong chest, warm breath tickling the back of his neck. The room is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and Bucky closes his eyes, willing each muscle to relax and his heart to slow down.

He is neither the Soldier nor the old Bucky Barnes. But he can be someone new with an old name if he allows himself.

So he opens his eyes and gently turns to face summer blue eyes that watch him apprehensively. Steve Rogers is back to his post-serum persona, beautiful and wide and thick, but for the first time, he feels like home. He must see that Bucky is no longer afraid. He must see something fragile, that Bucky is still afraid to name but that's there, nonetheless.

Steve's lips curl into a beautiful and shy smile. “There you are,” Steve says, voice raspy with sleep.

Bucky Barnes smiles gently, and kisses Steve Rogers, allowing himself to finally sink to the depths of that love and never return to the surface again.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't anticipate that I'd write another story for CAPRBB, but then I saw [the-steve-bucky-ship's art](http://the-steve-bucky-ship.tumblr.com/post/175483466638/this-is-my-art-for-cap-rbb-2018-maikurosaki) and I was hooked. I was inspired and it gave me the opportunity to write a de-serumed Steve, indulge in the canon a little bit. Please, pretty please, go and praise the wonderful art and admire how gorgeous it is. 
> 
> Captncat saved the day again and saved _me_ by editing this mess of a story - without her, I'd be forever lost. Seriously, this is not a joke nor an overestimation of how much she helped me during this time.  <3 I'm forever indebted to her. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. :)


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